Betty turned to Jim Frobisher. “Tomorrow, now that I am once again allowed to use my motor-car, I shall take you for a drive and show you something of our neighbourhood. This afternoon — you will understand, I know — I belong to Ann.”
She took Ann Upcott by the arm and the two girls went out into the garden. Jim was left alone in the hall — as at that moment he wanted to be. It was very still here now and very silent. The piping of birds, the drone of bees outside the open doors were rather an accompaniment than an interruption of the silence. Jim placed himself where Hanaud had stood at that moment when he had laughed so strangely — half-way between the foot of the stairs where Monsieur Bex and he himself had been standing and the open porch. But Jim could detect nothing whatever to provoke any laughter, any excitement. “That I should have lived all these years and never noticed it before,” he had exclaimed. Noticed what? There was nothing to notice. A table, a chair or two, a barometer hanging upon the wall on one side and a mirror hanging upon the wall on the other — no, there was nothing. Of course, Jim reflected, there was a strain of the mountebank in Hanaud. The whole of that little scene might have been invented by him maliciously, just to annoy and worry and cause discomfort to Monsieur Bex and himself. Hanaud was very capable of a trick like that! A strain of the mountebank indeed! He had a great deal of the mountebank. More than half of him was probably mountebank. Possibly quite two-thirds! “Oh, damn the fellow! What in the world did he notice?” cried Jim. “What did he notice from the top of the Tower? What did he notice in this hall? Why must he be always noticing something?” and he jammed his hat on in a rage and stalked out of the house.
CHAPTER 17
AT JEAN CLADEL’S
AT NINE O’CLOCK that night Jim Frobisher walked past the cashier’s desk and into the hall of the Grande Taverne. High above his head the cinematograph machine whirred and clicked and a blade of silver light cut the darkness. At the opposite end of the hall the square screen was flooded with radiance and the pictures melted upon it one into the other.
For a little while Jim could see nothing but that screen. Then the hall swam gradually within his vision. He saw the heads of people like great bullets and a wider central corridor where waitresses with white aprons moved. Jim walked up the corridor and turned off to the left between the tables. When he reached the wall he went forward again towards the top of the hall. On his left the hall fell back, and in the recess were two large cubicles in which billiard tables were placed. Against the wall of the first of these a young man was leaning with his eyes fixed upon the screen. Jim fancied that he recognized Maurice Thevenet, and nodded to him as he passed. A little farther on a big man with a soft felt hat was seated alone, with a Bock in front of him — Hanaud. Jim slipped into a seat at his side.
“You?” Hanaud exclaimed in surprise.
“Why not? You told me this is where you would be at this hour,” replied Jim, and some note of discouragement in his voice attracted Hanaud’s attention.
“I didn’t think that those two young ladies would let you go,” he said.
“On the contrary,” Jim replied with a short laugh. “They didn’t want me at all.” He began to say something more, but thought better of it, and called to a waitress.
“Two Bocks, if you please,” he ordered, and he offered Hanaud a cigar.
When the Bocks were brought, Hanaud said to him: “It will be well to pay at once, so that we can slip away when we want.”
“We have something to do to-night?” Jim asked.
He said no more until Jim had paid and the waitress had turned the two little saucers on which she had brought the Bocks upside down and had gone away. Then he leaned towards Jim and lowered his voice.
“I am glad that you came here. For I have a hope that we shall get the truth tonight, and you ought to be present when we do get it.”
Jim lit his own cigar. “From whom do you hope to get it?”
“Jean Cladel,” Hanaud answered in a whisper, “A little later when all the town is quiet we will pay a visit to the street of Gambetta.”
“You think he’ll talk?”
Hanaud nodded. “There is no charge against Cladel in this affair. To make a solution of that poison paste is not an offence. And he has so much against him that he will want to be on our side if he can. Yes, he will talk, I have no doubt.”
There would be an end of the affair then, tonight. Jim Frobisher was glad with an unutterable gladness. Betty would be free to order her life as she liked, and where she liked, to give to her youth its due scope and range, to forget the terror and horror of these last weeks, as one forgets old things behind locked doors.
“I hope, however,” he said earnestly to Hanaud, “and I believe, that you will be found wrong, that if there was a murder Ann Upcott had nothing to do with it. Yes, I believe that.” He repeated his assertion as much to convince himself as to persuade Hanaud.
Hanaud touched his elbow. “Don’t raise your voice too much, my friend,” he said. “I think there is someone against the wall who is honouring us with his attention.”
Jim shook his head. “It is only Maurice Thevenet,” he said.
“Oho?” answered Hanaud in a voice of relief. “Is that all? For a moment I was anxious. It seemed that there was a sentinel standing guard over us.” He added in a whisper, “I, too, hope from the bottom of my heart that I may be proved wrong. But what of that arrow-head in the pen-tray? Eh? Don’t forget that!” Then he fell into a muse.
“What happened on that night in the Maison Grenelle?” he said. “Why was that communicating door thrown open? Who was to be stripped to the skin by that violent woman? Who whispered ‘That will do now’? Is Ann Upcott speaking the truth, and was there some terrible scene taking place before she entered so unexpectedly the treasure room — some terrible scene which ended in that dreadful whisper? Or is Ann Upcott lying from beginning to end? Ah, my friend, you wrote some questions down upon your memorandum this afternoon. But these are the questions I want answered, and where shall I find the answers?”
Jim had never seen Hanaud so moved. His hands were clenched, and the veins prominent upon his forehead, and though he whispered his voice shook.
“Jean Cladel may help,” said Jim.
“Yes, yes, he may tell us something.” They sat through an episode of the film, and saw the lights go up and out again, and then Hanaud looked eagerly at his watch and put it back again into his pocket with a gesture of annoyance.
“It is still too early?” Jim asked.
“Yes. Cladel has no servant and takes his meals abroad. He has not yet returned home.”
A little before ten o’clock a man strolled in, and, seating himself at a table behind Hanaud, twice scraped a match upon a match-box without getting a light. Hanaud, without moving, said quietly to Frobisher: “He is at home now. In a minute I shall go. Give me five minutes and follow.”
Jim nodded. “Where shall we meet?”
“Walk straight along the Rue de la Liberty and I will see to that,” said Hanaud.
He pulled his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, put one between his lips, and took his time in lighting it. Then he got up, but to his annoyance Maurice Thevenet recognized him and came forward.
“When Monsieur Frobisher wished me good evening and joined you I thought it was you, Monsieur Hanaud. But I had not the presumption to recall myself to your notice.”
“Presumption! Monsieur, we are of the same service, only you have the advantage of youth,” said Hanaud politely, as he turned.
“But you are going, Monsieur Hanaud?” Thevenet asked in distress. “I am desolated. I have broken into a conversation like a clumsy fellow.”
“Not at all,” Hanaud replied. To Frobisher his patience was as remarkable as Maurice Thevenet’s impudence. “We were idly watching a film which I think is a little tedious.”
“Then, since you are not busy, I beg for your Indulgence. One little moment, that is all. I should so dearly love to be able to say
to my friends, ‘I sat in the cinema with Monsieur Hanaud — yes, actually! — and asked for his advice.’”
Hanaud sat down again upon his chair. “And upon what subject can you, of whom Monsieur Girardot speaks so highly, want my advice?” Hanaud asked with a laugh.
The eternal ambition of the provincial was tormenting the eager youth. To get to Paris — all was in that! Fortune, reputation, a life of colour. A word from Monsieur Hanaud and a way would open. He would work night and day to justify that word.
“Monsieur, all I can promise is that when the time comes I shall remember you. But that promise I make now with my whole heart,” said Hanaud warmly, and with a bow he moved away. Maurice Thevenet watched him go. “What a man!” Maurice Thevenet went on enthusiastically. “I would not like to try to keep any secrets from him. No, indeed!” Jim had heard that sentiment before on other lips and with a greater sympathy. “I did not understand at all what he had in his mind when he staged that little scene with Francine Rollard. But something, Monsieur. Oh, you may be sure. Something wise. And that search through the treasure-room! How quick and complete! No doubt while we searched Mademoiselle Upcott’s bedroom, he was just as quick and complete in going through her sitting-room. But he found nothing. No, nothing.”
He waited for Jim to corroborate him, but Jim only said “Oho!”
But Thevenet was not to be extinguished. “I shall tell you what struck me, Monsieur. He was following out no suspicions; isn’t that so? He was detached. He was gathering up every trifle, on the chance that each one might some time fit in with another and at last a whole picture be composed. An artist! There was a letter, for instance, which Mademoiselle Harlowe handed to him, one of those deplorable letters which have disgraced us here — you remember that letter, Monsieur?”
“Aha!” said Frobisher, quite in the style of Hanaud. “But I see that this film is coming to its wedding bells. So I shall wish you a good evening.”
Frobisher bowed and left Maurice Thevenet to dream of success in Paris. He strolled between the groups of spectators to the entrance and thence into the street. He walked to the arch of the Porte Guillaume and turned into the Rue de la Liberté. The provincial towns go to bed early and the street so busy throughout the day was like the street of a deserted city. A couple of hundred yards on, he was startled to find Hanaud, sprung from nowhere, walking at his side.
“So, my young friend, the secretary engaged you when I had gone?” he said.
“Maurice Thevenet,” said Jim, “may be as the Commissaire says, a young man of a surprising intelligence, but to tell you the truth, I find him a very intrusive fellow. First of all he wanted to know if you had discovered anything in Ann Upcott’s sitting-room, and then what Miss Harlowe’s anonymous letter was about.”
Hanaud looked at Jim with interest. “Yes, he is anxious to learn, that young man. Girardot is right. He will go far. And how did you answer him?”
“I said ‘Oho!’ first, and then I said ‘Aha!’ just like a troublesome friend of mine when I ask him a simple question which he does not mean to answer.”
Hanaud laughed heartily. “And you did very well,” he said. “Come, let us turn into this little street upon the right. It will take us to our destination.”
“Wait!” whispered Jim eagerly. “Don’t cross the road for a moment. Listen!”
Hanaud obeyed at once; and both men stood and listened in the empty street.
“Not a sound,” said Hanaud.
“No! That is what troubles me!” Jim whispered importantly. “A minute ago there were footsteps behind us. Now that we have stopped, they have stopped too. Let us go on quite straight for a moment or two.”
“But certainly, my friend,” said Hanaud.
“And let us not talk either,” Jim urged.
“Not a single word,” said Hanaud.
They moved forward again and behind them once more footsteps rang upon the pavement.
“What did I tell you?” asked Jim, taking Hanaud by the arm.
“That we would neither of us speak,” Hanaud replied. “And lo! you have spoken!”
“But why? Why have I spoken? Be serious, Monsieur.” Jim shook his arm indignantly. “We are being followed.”
Hanaud stopped dead and gazed in steady admiration at his junior colleague.
“Oh!” he whispered. “You have discovered that? Yes, it is true. We are being followed by one of my men who sees to it that we are not followed.”
Frobisher shook Hanaud’s arm off indignantly. He drew himself up stiffly. Then he saw Hanaud’s mouth twitching, and he understood that he was looking “proper.”
“Oh, let us go and find Jean Cladel,” he said with a laugh, and he crossed the road. They passed into a network of small, mean streets. There was not a soul abroad. The houses were shrouded in darkness. The only sounds they heard were the clatter of their own footsteps on the pavement and the fainter noise of the man who followed them. Hanaud turned to the left into a short passage and stopped before a little house with a shuttered shop-front.
“This is the place,” he said in a low voice, and he pressed the button in the pillar of the door. The bell rang with a shrill, sharp whirr just the other side of the panels.
“We may have to wait a moment if he has gone to bed,” said Hanaud, “since he has no servant in the house.”
A minute or two passed. The clocks struck the half-hour. Hanaud leaned his ear against the panels of the door. He could not hear one sound within the house. He rang again; and after a few seconds shutters were thrown back and a window opened on the floor above. From behind the window someone whispered;
“Who is there?”
“The police,” Hanaud answered, and at the window above there was silence.
“No one is going to do you any harm,” Hanaud continued, raising his voice impatiently. “We want some information from you. That’s all.”
“Very well.” The whisper came from the same spot. The man standing within the darkness of the room had not moved. “Wait! I will slip on some things and come down.”
The window and the shutter were closed again. Then through the chinks a few beams of light strayed out. Hanaud uttered a little grunt of satisfaction.
“That animal is getting up at last. He must have some strange clients amongst the good people of Dijon if he is so careful to answer them in a whisper.”
He turned about and took a step or two along the pavement and another step or two back like a man upon a quarter-deck. Jim Frobisher had never known him so restless and impatient during these two days.
“I can’t help it,” he said in a low voice to Jim. “I think that in five minutes we shall touch the truth of this affair. We shall know who brought the arrow to him from the Maison Grenelle.”
“If anyone brought the arrow to him at all,” Jim Frobisher added.
But Hanaud was not in the mood to consider ifs and possibilities.
“Oh, that!” he said with a shrug of the shoulders. Then he tapped his forehead. “I am like Waberski. I have it here that someone did bring the arrow to Jean Cladel.”
He started once more his quarter-deck pacing. Only it was now a trot rather than a walk. Jim was a little nettled by the indifference to his suggestion. He was still convinced that Hanaud had taken the wrong starting-point in all his inquiry. He said tartly:
“Well, if someone did bring the arrow here, it will be the same person who replaced the treatise on Strophanthus on its bookshelf.”
Hanaud came to a stop in front of Jim Frobisher. Then he burst into a low laugh. “I will bet you all the money in the world that that is not true, and then Madame Harlowe’s pearl necklace on the top of it. For after all it was not I who brought the arrow to Jean Cladel, whereas it was undoubtedly I who put back the treatise on the shelf.”
Jim took a step back. He stared at Hanaud with his mouth open in a stupefaction.
“You?” he exclaimed. “I,” replied Hanaud, standing up on the tips of his toes. “Alone I did it.”<
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Then his manner, of burlesque dropped from him. He looked up at the shuttered windows with a sudden anxiety.
“That animal is taking longer than he need,” he muttered. “After all, it is not to a court ball of the Duke of Burgundy that we are inviting him.”
He rang the bell again with a greater urgency. It returned its shrill reply as though it mocked him.
“I do not like this,” said Hanaud.
He seized the door-handle and leaned his shoulder against the panel and drove his weight against it. But the door was strong and did not give. Hanaud put his fingers to his mouth, and whistled softly. From the direction whence they had come they heard the sound of a man running swiftly. They saw him pass within the light of the one street lamp at the corner and out of it again; and then he stood at their side. Jim recognized Nicolas Moreau, the little agent who had been sent this very morning by Hanaud to make sure that Jean Cladel existed.
“Nicolas, I want you to wait here,” said Hanaud. “If the door is opened, whistle for us and keep it open.”
“Very well, sir.”
Hanaud said in a low and troubled voice to Frobisher: “There is something here which alarms me.” He dived into a narrow alley at the side of the shop.
“It was in this alley, no doubt, that Waberski meant us to believe that he hid on the morning of the 7th of May,” Jim whispered as he hurried to keep with his companion.
“No doubt.”
The alley led into a lane which ran parallel with the street of Gambetta. Hanaud wheeled into it. A wall five feet high, broken at intervals by rickety wooden doors, enclosed the yards at the backs of the houses. Before the first of these breaks in the wall Hanaud stopped. He raised himself upon the tips of his toes and peered over the wall, first downwards into the yard, and then upwards towards the back of the house. There was no lamp in the lane, no light showing from any of the windows. Though the night was clear of mist it was as dark as a cavern in this narrow lane behind the houses. Jim Frobisher, though his eyes were accustomed to the gloom, knew that he could not have seen a man, even if he had moved, ten yards away. Yet Hanaud still stood peering at the back of the house with the tips of his fingers on the top of the wall. Finally he touched Jim on the sleeve.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 47